Crossing Over - Anna Kendall [51]
She swept from the presence chamber, leaving behind her the grim-faced guard and the peasants still on their knees. One of them, his back to me, whispered something to his friend. In her privy chamber the queen told me only, “It is not safe for you out there,” before vanishing into her bedchamber and closing the door.
I didn’t know what to do. I went cold, then hot, then cold again. There was no wine. I sat at the carved table, and then on the floor. I poked the fire, which did not need poking. I could not settle, could not think.
No. That is not true. I could think, but only of one word, the word the peasant had whispered to his friend—had dared to whisper there, in the queen’s own presence chamber.
Poison.
The queen is dead, long live the queen!
“I will do whatever I must to protect my queendom.” She had said that to me.
The queen is dead, long live—
Finally the door was flung open and Lord Robert entered, at the same time that the queen emerged from her bedchamber. I fell to my knees. She had changed without aid from her ladies, who were . . . what? Delayed? In hiding? Slaughtered by the Blues? Cecilia—
“Caro,” Lord Robert choked out.
She did not answer. She looked magnificent, dressed in a gown I had not seen before. It was so embroidered with green jewels that the green velvet underneath could scarcely be seen. Her full skirts swept the floor and lengthened to a train behind. Long lace-and-satin sleeves fell almost to her fingertips, hiding the bud of the extra finger. She wore an emerald necklace and earrings and her rich black hair hung loose down her back, her bare head ostentatiously awaiting a crown.
Lord Robert ignored all that. He grabbed her hands, causing the sleeves to fall back over her white arms.
“Caro . . . sweet palace of the heavens, Caro . . . what have you done?”
Poison, the peasant had said.
“Please escort me to the throne room, Lord Robert,” she said, and at her tone he jerked and then—finally, belatedly—knelt.
“The queen is dead,” he said in a voice as rigid as Queen Eleanor’s, “long live the queen.”
“Roger, you will stay here,” she said. “I will need you later. Bar the door and open it to none but myself or Lord Robert. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Open the door, Lord Robert.”
He did, and he trailed her out, and now I could hear the great bells in the tower begin to toll, as slow and stately as the court dances required by the old queen, sending the news to The Queendom of death, and change, and triumph.
I didn’t know how much time I had.
If the Green soldiers could not secure the palace, would the queen return to her privy chamber or wait in her presence chamber? Might she bring her ladies in here for safety, if guards brought them to her? Most important of all, how long had the old queen been dead?
If I was going to do this at all, it must be now. Before I could change my mind, I seized a carving knife from the table and jabbed at my arm. Pain sprang along my nerves, making me drop the knife. I willed myself to cross over.
This time I was close by the river, almost in the water. A large group of soldiers sat together on the grass, all dressed in the same leather armor and crude sandals, as if they had died together. Like the rest of the Dead, they bore no injuries or maiming. The whole group ignored me. From their old-fashioned garb I guessed that they had been there a long time. For all I knew, they might be there forever.
The western mountains had disappeared altogether, as if the valley now stretched larger than in my previous visit, and the river seemed even wider and slower. I was still on the island, however. Running along its banks, in and out of groves of trees, I searched for the old queen. Circles of the Dead, more Dead lying on the grass or gazing at rocks—where was she?
I found her wading ashore from the river, sputtering and angry. Water dripped from her blue silk gown and from her crown, the simple silver circlet she favored on her white hair. Even wet, Queen Eleanor had a terrifying dignity. Even furious. Even dead.
I dropped